


Hard at our heels

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Running on Fumes [7]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (non-explicit), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Fem!Every grandchild of Finwe, Gen, Genderswap, References to PTSD, References to traumatic injury, Rule 63, Track & Field AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:04:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3228596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon returns to the track, and once again she’s matched up against a Fëanorion. Just not the usual one…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard at our heels

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. A thousand apologies for letting this series go so long without an update! I know I left our poor girls in a pretty terrible place – my only excuse is that I’ve been horribly absorbed in my other AU, and various other things, and this just fell off my radar for a while. But here’s the next installment! And I do have more ideas, so I swear this story isn’t going to just die.

Fingon glanced across the track at the infield. Curufin was staring at her, grey eyes intense. Curufin was still half a head shorter than Fingon, a whip thin and wiry fourteen year old with jet-black hair scraped back from her face in a tight ponytail. She had her father’s strong jawline and cheekbones but hadn’t grown into them yet, and they gave her thin, young face an almost frightening quality. Fingolfin had eyed her and murmured that she was far more the build of a distance runner than a sprinter, but it hadn’t stopped her from blowing every middle school record out of the water. And it wasn’t stopping her from being Fingon’s biggest competition in the 400.

Fingon tightened her ponytail, fingers brushing over the gold ribbon she’d almost forgotten to put on that morning. But when she had been halfway down the driveway, Turgon had raced up behind her, panting, and held out the ribbon, wordlessly. “It’s a race day,” she said seriously. “Don’t forget.”

Fingon swung out her legs, refusing to be intimidated by the silver stare from across the track. Celegorm came over from where the jumpers were warming up, her mass of blonde hair wild around her head as she dragged out her braid impatiently. She said something to Curufin, who only then dropped her gaze from Fingon. The two sisters turned and walked over to the rest of their scarlet clad teammates, Celegorm’s arm slung over Curufin’s thin shoulders.

“Scrawny little thing, isn’t she?” Aredhel observed, coming up behind Fingon unexpectedly. “Her quads are about the size of my wrists.”

Fingon looked down at her own powerfully muscled thighs and felt slightly consoled. _She’s not built like a sprinter. I am._ But then she remembered the times she’d watched Curufin race at the middle school track – face tight with concentration, legs like pistons – and her nerves jangled again.

Aredhel’s hands were on her hips as she watched her cousins – and one-time friend – walk away. As if aware she was being watched, Celegorm tossed her head and glanced back over her shoulder. When she spotted Aredhel, she winked and then flipped her the bird.

Aredhel made an angry sound in the back of her throat. “Wish I had my javelin with me.”

“No impaling opponents, dad says,” said Fingon. Some part of her was comforted though, that Celegorm at least was as blithely irreverent as ever – her relentless teasing of Aredhel was familiar, even if Curufin’s cold confrontation was unsettling. Fingon looked uneasily over her shoulder at the stands, raking the crowd for a familiar flash of red hair. But of course, Maedhros would be in no condition to come to the meet. Fingon had heard, through Anairë, that Maedhros had gone in for yet another surgery that week – _No change, they’re saying, and she’s still having no nerve response in that foot…_ At any rate, it would probably be nothing short of torture to force her to watch a race she couldn’t run – might never be able to run again….

The old sickness rose in Fingon, and Aredhel, seeing her sway, grabbed her arm.

“Finno. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Fingon managed. She fixed her eyes resolutely on the toes of her racing shoes.

_The whistle –_

_–  the crack_

_–  the  scream_

Fingon shuddered and pressed her palms to her eyes. She hadn’t heard from Maedhros since her disastrous visit to Fëanor’s house – no responses to her calls, her texts, her emails. She still sent a text every morning, something light and meaningless. She wasn’t sure why she kept doing it in the face of complete radio silence.

 

_It’s morning. It’s too early. Tell me I don’t have to go to school._

_Good morning. It’s raining. :P_

_I actually made lunch for myself today. Pb &j. I know, I’m 6._

_Hi._

_Hey, Mae._

 

Each day without a response sent her deeper into her misery, but she couldn’t stop.

“It’s not in you to give up, is it?” Fingolfin had always said to her. “My brave, relentless Finno.”

_I’m not brave._

Each text she sent she had written four or five times before sending. And each one had started the same way.

 

_I miss you I miss you I miss you_

_I’m sorry_

 

This morning she’d stared at her phone, unable to think of what to say.

_It’s a race day._

[Delete]

_Turno’s nervous about Maglor in the mile._

[Delete]

_I want to beat your little sister._

_I think._

[Delete]

_I’m sorry_

_I love you_

_Please answer_

[…]

[Delete]

 

Someone was shaking her shoulder. “Fin, they’re calling for the four hundred,” Turgon was saying. “Do you have – ”

“I’m on your blocks,” said Aredhel at once. “C’mon, Finno, get over to the line. You’re on the inside lane.”

-

Fingon pushed herself up on her fingertips and kicked her feet back against the starting blocks experimentally, Aredhel bracing against her weight. Fingon rearranged her toes minutely and lowered herself down on one knee, the roughness of the track biting into the back of her knuckles. Up ahead, in lane two for the waterfall start, Curufin was settling in against her own blocks. Celegorm was holding them steady for her, and for once, she wasn’t being teasing or careless. Her face was serious and she was murmuring something to Curufin in a low voice. Curufin didn’t look at her but nodded.

“You’ve got this,” whispered Aredhel. “This is your race.”

Fingon drew her concentration into a razor focus, and tried to remember the joy she had once felt on the starting line. It was like scraping the bottom of an empty barrel.

 _This is my race_.

But still the joy didn’t come.

She took her mark.

She set.

She ran.

 

- 

 

At the 200, far away down the valley, a train whistle blew, long and sorrowful. Ghosts caught at Fingon’s heels, chewed into her lungs.

_The whistle –_

The whistle.

She could hear Curufin’s breaths in the next lane, and the swift scratch of their spikes on the track.

_And a scream –_

But instead of fear, Fingon felt fury.

She brought her chin down, and leaned forward. She felt her arms pushing her forward – _you are strong, you are brave, this is your race, this is_ yours _, this is_ you _–_ and the adrenaline – _fuck the fear_ – sent electricity all the way down her legs.

At the straightaway, the whistle came again.

_You don’t get to take me, too!_

Teeth bared, eyes wild, Fingon flew down the last 100 – and left the train behind.

She left Curufin behind, too.

 

\---

Fëanor and Fingolfin were waiting on opposite ends of the track. Fëanor’s face was thunderous, but after Curufin crossed the line, panting as she ran out the end of her kick, her eyes over-bright and her face tight with disappointment, Fëanor’s expression softened. He took her shoulder, pressing water into her hands, murmuring something quiet.

Fingon wiping sweat from her face with the bottom of her singlet, nodded at her.

“Good race,” she said, meeting Curufin’s eyes.

Curufin didn’t say anything, looking at her with pure hatred before turning away and spitting bitterly.

Fingolfin clapped Fingon on the back, as a coach, and then squeezed her tight, very quickly, as a father. “You should take a quick cool down and then prep for the 8,” he said. “Turno still has to do a cool down, why don’t you – ”

“I’m not running the 8.”

“What? Fingon, we have – ”

“I’m not running the 800,” said Fingon, stonily. “I’m not running it again this season. It’s fine; it will give Aegnor a chance to pull some wins.”

“Fingon – ”

“There’s Turno, coach, I’m gonna go cool down now.”

There were curls of hair falling loose around her face, and she reached back impatiently to tie them away from her face. It was then that she realized that somewhere along the way, she’d lost her ribbon.

She glanced back along the track, once, then took off after Turgon.

 

\---

“What have you got there?”

Maglor straightened up hastily, tucking something into her pocket. “Hm? Oh, nothing. How’s Curvo?”

Caranthir shrugged. “Pissed as hell and trying not to show it.”

“How’s dad?”

“Being way more understanding than he’d be if it was one of us.”

“She’s just an eighth grader, Moryo.”

“Sure, I guess.” Caranthir stuck her hands into the pockets of her track jacket. “But only technically. Anyway, Tyelko would be trying to comfort her too, but she’s up in the triple now.”

“Oh, shoot, I meant to go watch.”

“C’mon, then, she’s on deck.”

They crossed over to where the jumpers were lined up by the sandpit, and Maglor came up beside Curufin, who was hunched into her too-large sweatshirt, a black look on her face as she watched the jumpers.

Maglor bumped her with a shoulder. “Nice PR.”

“Second place.”

“In your first high school race.”

Curufin sneered. “Why does that matter? I’m so tired of being _condescended_ to. It’s so – ” She broke off, annoyed, as a whoop came from behind her where the vaulters were competing.

They turned in time to see a lithe, blue-clad figure twist expertly in the air as she sailed over the bar at the pole vault pit. On the sidelines, a tall golden-haired girl was dancing in delight. “Yeah, G!”

Curufin curled her lip. “Why is she so happy? Galadriel is _beating_ her _.”_

“Because she’s happy for her sister’s successes?” suggested Maglor softly. “Maybe Finrod figures that even when she gets knocked out early, it’s still worth watching her little sister fly…”

“You’re so sentimental,” said Curufin dismissively, and turned back to the straight-away, where Celegorm was poised to take off.

Maglor fixed her eyes on her sister, but her mind was elsewhere as in her pocket, her fingers toyed absently with a long, gold ribbon.

 

 


End file.
